little doll
made of rags
her cotton face much loved
worn and tattered now
far beyond repair
her braided hair is faded
from the light of ninety years
her blue eyes blurred
her lips a smudge rubbed out
her end arrives with moths
her memory is loved
age
day 3 – My Tomorrows
There is a hollow truth
at the heart of all youth,
It fades slowly away.
I don’t often yearn
for the glow of those years.
The mornings were yellow
But the sunset is gold.
I feel no burdening sorrow.
There’s advantage to being old;
I will always value tomorrow.
The Birch Tree
the graceful birch, straight ahead
where the forest begins, a white cluster
the old wood has fallen
and rotted to riches
feeding the daffodil shoots
pushing upward, splitting the earth
tender tree, a white beacon
stands by the dark forest edge
this is a time for promises
made to each morning begun
the sap, so sweet before the first green,
becomes bitter when the year starts to age
The Dreaming Path 